


Welcome to First Class

by Ook



Series: Hello, Westchester. Hello. [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: A small amount of era-appropriate homophobia and prejudice, Carlos is both perfect and confused, Cecil is Inhuman, Charles is Sad, Crossover, Erik You Idiot, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hence the tentacles., Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oh God what IS this?, There may or may not be tentacles at some point, They may or may not be the fun kind of tentacles., sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I... I'm sorry.</p><p>In which Time is fluid, Cecil is inhuman, Carlos is perfect, and Cecil wants to go visit and cheer up his Cousin Charles after his nasty experience on the beach, despite that being several decades in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

_Now_

 

"Good morning Hank, Alex.” Charles so rarely left his rooms without being forced or coaxed these days, that Alex dropped his toast in surprise to see the prof, spiffy new wheelchair and all, roll into the kitchen.

“C-Charles!” Hank sprang up. “What can I get you for breakfast?” He turned to the counter.

“Oh-- Just tea, please.” Charles smiled weakly. “I’m still not--” Hank turned back to him.

“You have to eat, Charles.” His tone was gentle, but Charles still flinched.

“It’s not as if I’m going to be doing much from now on, is it?” Charles’ tone was bitter. Alex stretched out an awkward hand, and then froze. Maybe the prof didn’t want to be touched.

“You’re still healing,” he said, to cover the awkward moment. “You need food for that.” Charles’ lips twisted, but he said nothing further.

Hank put a plate off toast down in front of Charles, and passed him the butter and the Marmite. Charles imported it from London, at great expense. Having tasted the stuff, Hank wasn’t sure why. Charles had no great tendencies to masochism that he’d noticed.

“I do not understand how they can call that stuff food,” Sean said from the doorway. He walked wide around the Marmite, warily edging into his seat next to Alex. He reached for the cereal.

An awkward silence fell. After a moment, Charles said, “I. Um. I suppose I should let you know, we’re going to be having visitors.” He bit at his toast.

“Family, friends, anyone we know?” Hank could have kicked himself; he hadn’t meant to mention the people they did know. Moira, Raven, Erik. Darwin. They were almost all the people everyone knew, and none of them would be coming anywhere Westchester, ever again.

“No.” Charles smiled again, almost convincingly. “Cecil calls himself my cousin, but he’s not, not really. And I’ve never met Carlos yet, but Cecil talks about him so much, it hardly matters.”

“Cecil? He’s actually called Cecil? What’s he like?” Sean asked. Charles’ smile became a little more real.

“Oh, Cecil defies description, really. You’ll know him when you meet him. He’s a radio show host, somewhere. Carlos is his... scientist.”

“ _His_ scientist?” Hank asked curiously. “Do radio shows need a lot of scientific knowledge, then?”

“Sorry. His _favourite_ scientist, I should have said.”

“Prof.” Alex waved a spoon to get his attention. “Is he... Are they, y’know, _like_ us? Or, uh, used to weird stuff?”

Charles _actually grinned._

“Yes. Yes, that’s pretty fair to say. Cecil is certainly used to weird, of one sort or another. And he’s been talking about Carlos for a long time, so I imagine _he_ is, as well.”

 

_Then_

 

Carlos looked up out of his car at the excited radio host leaning on it. Cecil cleared his throat.

“Time, as we know, is fluid. Time is debatable, detachable, and if you fill in the right forms, rebatable, too.”

“Cecil,” Carlos said gently.

“Carlos,” Cecil returned smartly, and straightened his bow tie.

“I only asked you how old your cousin is,” Carlos said patiently. He kept his hands on the steering wheel. The car, not being from Night Vale, did not whimper or try to bite. It stayed still and, well, car-like. Cecil looked at him fondly, and flicked something out of Carlos’ hair. 

“But you see, dear, perfect one--” Carlos’ ears turned pink. “How old Charles is depends on when I go see him.” As if it was as obvious.

“How...” Carlos trailed off warily.

Cecil gave Carlos an indulgent smile as he explained. “Because time is fluid. If it exists. It might not.” He shrugged elaborately. “But… Charles is a scientist, too, so I saved this time ‘til you were here.”

Carlos gave up on Cousin Charles’s age for another puzzle. “Saved this time?”

“He’s unhappy. I thought maybe a visit from another scientist might, I don’t know, cheer him up.” Cecil looked slightly wily, which on him was endearing.

“But you have to remember, you’re _my_ scientist.”

“I’m your boyfriend, too, I hope.” Carlos said, and then the conversation derailed itself for a few minutes. Eventually, mindful of the Duration of Public Affection (Limitations) by law recently decreed, it resumed.

“So where does Charles live?” Carlos asked. “I thought I knew most of the people you knew, here.”

“Oh, Charles doesn’t live in Night Vale.” Cecil gestured vaguely in a direction – somewhere. “He lives in Westchester. That’s another reason to-- Night Vale cars don’t always run very well, outside.

“Your cousin lives outside Night Vale?” Carlos said. “Has he ever--”

“Come here? No. He’d get a _very_ bad headache.” Cecil sadly shook his head.

“Well, I think I can leave most of the science to the others, for a bit.” Cecil said. “Will we be gone long?” Idly, he wondered where Westchester was. It wasn’t on any of the maps he’d had prepared before he came to Night Vale.

“Not at all.” Cecil assured him, climbing into the car. “Not at all.” Carlos could only sympathise with Charles. Night Vale gave him headaches, too. 

Although it also gave him Cecil, so. He kind of liked the town, too.


	2. Proper preparation… actually, it prevents very little.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles prepares for his visitors, Carlos and Cecil make the journey.

_Now._

 

“Charles, what _is_ that?” Hank stared into the Small Green Parlour, bewildered. Charles looked up from the tiny, yet ominous, circle of oddly glistening stones he was standing up on a piece of pale leather unfolded on the side table.

“This?” Charles asked, carefully levering a stone into place atop two more. “Cecil calls it a bloodstone circle. This is a portable version, of course.”

“I… see.” Hank stared, face blank. Charles looked away.

“I don’t have it set up all the time, because, well, I don’t think the house - the atmosphere--” He trailed off. “Cecil likes it,” he said, faintly defensive. “And I - it’s important, to be a good host. But if you don’t--” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s bad.” Hank said hastily. “I was just surprised. It didn’t seem to be - where did it even come from?”

He squinted at the stones, took his glasses off carefully, and tried to polish them. Some of the stones had appeared to have _eyes_ for a moment there. He put his glasses back on. It was much harder now his ears had shifted position and his face had widened. He still wasn’t quite used to it. He blinked again. Were the stones _humming?_ Surely not.

“Night Vale.” Charles wistfully stared down at the stones. “I’ve never been. Cecil talks about it - it must be simply beautiful.”

“Maybe you could take a break from starting the school; you could visit.” Hank suggested. “You could do with a rest.” Charles shook his head. “I’m sure you cousin would love to have you.” Charles gave him a brave smile.

“Not really possible, these days, I’m afraid.”

Hank sighed. Charles was almost as self-conscious about his wheelchair as Hank was about his appearance. He could sympathise, but - the world was far more ready for a personable young man with a disability than it was for a man who was seven foot tall and covered in blue fur. Still, Hank understood Charles’s hatred of being stared at or pitied.

“Can I have another look at your wheelchair?” he asked. “I’ve got a few more ideas for improvements.”

Charles’ lip’s thinned. More fiddling, with a device he hated to have to need. Charles hated the chair. And his legs. Sometimes, he thought, if he wasn’t careful, it would be quite easy to hate Erik, too. But he refused to do that.

“Later today, please? I have to get these exactly right…” He picked up a compass, and began to take careful measurements.

“Sure thing, professor.”

Quietly, Hank decided to leave the idea of a trip to town for a haircut until a better time.

 

_Then and Now._

The highway was alive. That was not a metaphor.

Carlos cursed, stamping on the brakes as the boiling void, smelling faintly of thyme and ozone, opened up around the car and they were swallowed by grey blue darkness. Everything shifted, going syrupy and strangely distant, as if he’d been hit on the head, or eaten Cecil’s sandwich by mistake, instead of his own.

Light stabbed his eyes again. Carlos shook his head, hard. The car slid sideways, between road and highway, and came to a screeching stop on a driveway somewhere Carlos had never seen before. An indefinable absence of atmosphere told him they were no longer in Night Vale. He leant forward and petted the steering wheel until the car stopped screeching, subsiding into tiny tremors and sniffles.

“What. Was _that?_ ” Carlos asked, faintly.

“What was what?” Cecil looked sheepish. Carlos gave him a Look.

“The highway’s always indigo. And full of that strangely disquieting noise.” Cecil said. “If I’m headed to Westchester, that is.”

Carlos gave him another look, less intense that the first, and sighed. “I don’t think I’ll get my deposit back. The _chewing--_ ” The car stopped shivering.

“I’m sorry, Carlos.” Cecil brightened up. “The car is much more comfortable than doing this on foot, though.”

“You - you used to _walk_ through that?” Carlos gaped. “How are you still alive?”

“No, I used my trusty bicycle.” Cecil said. “But I was able to fit a lot more into this car. Cousin Charles loves invisible corn.”

“Right.” Carlos peered out of the car. “Cecil, where are we?” They were parked in lovely, rolling countryside, lush and green with the last of the summer. It was completely unfamiliar.

“Westchester,” Cecil happily announced. He pointed toward the buildings in the distance. “Come on. I imagine Cousin Charles can hear us by now.” Carlos decided not to ask. Whistling, he coaxed the car into gear, setting off cautiously down the driveway toward the house. The very large house. It, or perhaps its architects had _definitely_ been to Night Vale, Carlos thought. He’d never seen a larger and more imposing building outside of City Hall, down in Night Vale.

It seemed vaguely familiar, although Carlos wasn’t sure why. The grounds were as well kept as if they were a park; perhaps he’d been taken on a tour as a child, or something. He ignored the satellite dish. He doubted it would do anything like the one in Night Vale had.

“What’s that tune?” Cecil asked. “It’s very cheery.”

“It’s the theme tune to a show I loved as a kid.” Carlos said, absently.

He couldn’t quite say why the Addams Family was running through his mind, but… it seemed fitting, somehow.


	3. Face to face, like a candle in the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cecil.” Carlos breathed deeply once, apparently unaware of anyone else in the hallway. “Have we just travelled in time?” 
> 
> “We’re always travelling in time.” Cecil sounded slightly evasive.

“Professor!” Sean’s excited yell rang through the house. “There’s an amazingly weird car in the driveway!”

 _Probably Cecil and Carlos_ , Charles answered. _He always turns up with unusual transport._

“Really?” Hank helped Charles manoeuvre his chair down the staircase. “How unusual?” 

“Last time, he turned up riding something he called a bicycle.” Charles gritted his teeth as they lurched down the final few steps to the hallway. The jolting and the awkwardness of descending the stairs reminded him he really had to see about putting an elevator into the old pile soon.

“ _Called_ a bicycle?” Hank repeated. “What’s so odd about riding a bicycle? What was unusual about it?” 

_Most bicycles do not eat meat or possess thumbs_. Charles put his gloved hands to the wheels of his chair. Aloud he said, “Thank you Hank, I’ll take it from here,” and wheeled himself determinedly towards the front door. Sean yanked it open and hurried outside. Hank put his hands behind his back, in case he was tempted to offer Charles help he so often did not want, and followed the Professor towards the door. 

“Should I be here?” he murmured to Charles. “I mean--” He swept a hand over himself. Blue fur, teeth, claws. “They won’t be expecting anything like _me._ ”

“Yes,” Charles said, equally quietly. “This is your home, Hank. Cecil will be fine, and I’m sure his friend will be, too, or he wouldn’t bring him.” Sean reappeared, with two men. His grin was a little uncertain.

The dark skinned man in a flannel shirt and jeans following at Sean’s elbow was also smiling a little uncertainly. Presumably this was Cecil’s perfect Carlos. He was certainly handsome, Charles thought, but he wasn’t too sure about the perfect part. Carlos kept glancing about the hall, mutely puzzled, running a hand though his thick, dark hair. Charles felt a faint stab of something he refused to call envy over the patches of silver at Carlo’s temples, distinguished despite the man’s apparent youth.

There was nothing uncertain about the sharp-toothed grin of the man Charles did recognise. Cecil, as ever, wore a sweater vest, a button down shirt and a tie, and crisply pressed trousers. He was still oddly tall and thin, wiry and surprising. Currently, his hair was completely white, and his eyes were purple. Charles smiled, bracing himself. Cecil could be very… intense in his expression of his feelings; and this would be the first time he would see Charles in his wheelchair. 

“Cousin Charles!” Cecil crowed, dashing forwards oddly fast. Carlos shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled indulgently. Cecil paused briefly, blinking at the wheelchair, before he simply slipped his hands under Charles’ armpits and hauled him up out of his hated seat with surprising strength.

He folded Charles into a tight, comforting hug, then held up him at at arm’s length, their eyes level. Cecil was beaming happily. Charles looked down to where he could see - if not feel his toes - dangling above the polished floorboards. Almost unwillingly, he smiled back.

“Hello, Cecil.” he said wryly. “You haven’t changed a bit.” 

Cecil thoughtfully pursed his lips. “Well, I think one of my arms isn’t the same,” he said. “It’s been a while since I took this old form out of Night Vale, after all.”

Charles craned his neck and saw, over Cecil’s shoulder, the other gentleman still glancing around nervously. “You must be Cecil’s Carlos.”

Dazed, the young man nodded. Bewilderment and confusion leaked from him, and traces of both awe and recognition made Charles - mentally, anyway, physically Cecil was still holding him upright - sit up sharply. 

“Hello. I’m. Um. Yeah. I – sorry, could somebody tell me the date?”

“You’re right.” Charles said, softly to Cecil. “That is close to perfect hair, right there.”

“Not close to. Is.” Cecil said, even as Hank told Carlos the date.

“Wait, sorry, did you say _1964?_ ” Carlos’ eyes went a little wild.

“I told you.” Cecil said, turning to face Carlos, and shuffling Charles round so he was still upright, but facing outwards. “Time is fluid--” 

“Cecil.” Carlos breathed deeply once, apparently unaware of anyone else in the hallway. “Have we just travelled in time?” 

“We’re always travelling in time.” Cecil sounded slightly evasive. “Moving through the now like a flame down the wick of a candle.” 

“Cecil,” Carlos continued patiently. “Have we just moved five decades back _up_ the wick of this metaphorical candle?” 

“What year did you think it was?” Hank inquired, intrigued. Carlos barely glanced at him as he answered.

“I- it was 2013 outside Night Vale, last I knew.” Everyone blinked, apart from Cecil, who shrugged.

“Ah.” Charles nodded weakly. There was a short pause. “Would anyone like a drink?”

“Oh god, yes.” Carlos said, before anyone else could open their mouth.

 

Professor Charles Xavier. Cecil’s “Cousin Charles” was _Professor Charles Xavier._ Specifically, the dignified face of the mutant civil rights movement from half a century ago. Carlos tried not to stare, and took another gulp of whiskey.

Instead, he let his eyes wander around the – what they called it? Oh, the Small Green Parlour. A tiny version of Night Vale’s bloodstone circles rested incongruously atop a side table near a sunny window. The group of them had made their way in several minutes before, Cecil finally returning his cousin to the old-style wheelchair, while the young redhead had gone to make the tea. The rest of them had settled into chairs and a sofa to attempt awkward conversation until he returned.

Carlos’ eyes inevitably swung back to Professor Xavier, chatting genially with Cecil and sipping tea neatly. His memory of the Mutant part of the Civil Rights movement - of the 1960s in generally, in fact - was strangely fuzzy and distant, but he recognised both that name and that face, even fifty years younger and with actual hair. 

Hair that needed washing, actually.

“I’m still adjusting.” _Professor Charles Xavier_ turned toward him, huffing a bit. “Baths are… not always easy.”

Carlos winced. “Sorry,” he said aloud.

“Oh, don’t be - fifty years - it must have come as a terrible shock.” Charles smiled warmly, fascinated. He wondered if the younger scientist knew anything about what Erik was up to, right now.

“No, not for that,” Carlos said, “Or rather, as well as that uh, I’ve just. Well. You’re a telepath. I’m probably going to spend the next ten to fifteen minutes thinking about all the little embarrassing things I never want anyone to know. So. Sorry.” Like the time his sisters had persuaded him to wear a dress to school, when he was nine, or - Carlos paused, and slapped himself in the head. Charles winced.

Cecil stopped murmuring soothing endearments to the tiny bloodstone circle and looked up.

“Carlos?”

“Cecil.” Carlos replied in a level voice. Cecil smiled at him hopefully. Carlos softened. “Yes, alright, I should be used to events that are painfully impossible on every conceivable level.” Cecil smiled more widely. “I’m not conceding that a fifty year time skip and, um, historical personages need more of a warning though. Suppose I – we - broke history?”

“Historical personages?” Charles asked invitingly. Carlos blinked. 

_Oops,_ he thought, ruefully, and Charles grinned a little.

“You mean some of us get to be famous?” Sean leaned forward eagerly. “Cool!” he said. “Is it me?”

“Ah…” Warily, Carlos drew back in his chair. He thought again, how odd it was; his brain seemed to be refusing to hold on to many historical facts about mutants it really ought to.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Cecil gave the nearest bloodstone a little pat, and stepped towards Carlos, licking his bleeding finger. “We can’t break history- right now, we _are_ history!” He paused, looking around at the stunned or worried faces around him. “In a _good_ way, of course.”

“Of course.” Carlos sighed, and tilted his face up to be kissed, as Cecil approached.

Sean made a strangled noise.


	4. Transport of delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles is surprised, Alex asks Carlos some era-appropriate homophobic questions and Cecil is pleased.

Charles opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to get up and face the day. He knew he had to - he had guests, and paper work, and… But he was tired, even after a good night’s sleep; tired and a little sad.

Cecil had been a little sad, yesterday, too. Sean’s reaction to his – admittedly shameless - display of affection for Carlos (and certainly, _now_ Cecil’s many happy descriptions of Carlos’ perfections made sense) had been non-verbal but pretty clear. Carlos hadn’t said anything, but Charles had felt his flinch. Cecil had just looked disappointed.

 _Well, he’ll get over it._ Charles thought, and then couldn’t have said whether he meant Sean or Cecil. He turned his head, then bit back a curse. His wheelchair wasn’t by his bed. Charles could have sworn he’d left there the night before, but it was all the way across the room, backed into the corner. He must have forgotten to lock the brakes.

Charles sighed, beginning to lever himself upright. He had two choices. One, he could try to get out of bed, hopefully without a fall, and drag himself to the chair. The other was to open his mind and hope someone was both awake and willing to come move a chair four bloody feet because Charles’s legs, Charles’ spine, were both broken and useless.

The wheelchair made a creaking noise. He’d have to ask Hank or Sean or Alex to oil it. Marvellous. Yet more things Charles now needed other people to do for him.

“You can shut up.” Charles said to the wheelchair. “All the way over there--” His voice died in his throat as the wheel chair _moved._ Creaking happily, it wheeled itself forward until it stood exactly where he’d left in the night before. 

It moved oddly, but it was definitely moving itself, rather than being pushed or pulled.

“What.” Charles gaped. “I mean, I--” The wheelchair bounced up and down eagerly, like a puppy trying to encourage its owner to take it for a walk. Charles eyed it. He was reminded of the first time he’d met Cecil’s bicycle. Charles craned his neck, trying to see if the wheelchair had thumbs anywhere he could see.

Abruptly the whole situation seemed too bizarre to worry about.

“Night Vale,” Charles sighed. The wheelchair squeaked at him. Agreement? Denial? Encouragement? He couldn’t tell.

“I’m not going to try and read the mind of a _wheelchair_ ,” Charles told it, and shifted his weight onto his arms, preparing to move himself to the side of the bed.

The wheelchair quivered with excitement.

 

“Hello,” Carlos said quietly. Alex stared at him, wary. Carlos wished Cecil was around; he always was good at appearing harmless and friendly.

“Sean said you’re…” Alex trailed off.

“A time traveller? A scientist?” Carlos reminded himself where and when they were. It helped him keep his temper, as Alex edged around the kitchen table as if he, Carlos, might bite.

“You’re - you like men.” Alex muttered into the depths of the refrigerator.

“Yes,” Carlos said, unapologetically. “I do.” Alex stared into the fridge some more. Carlos sipped his coffee.

Strange, given how much he’d missed the stuff in Night Vale, how flat and wrong outsider coffee seemed to him now. Perhaps it was being in 1963. Alex appeared to be trying to climb into the fridge now. 

“Is he… Does he _make_ you?” Alex mumbled.

Carlos wondered if he should warn the teen about hypothermia. Or the risk of getting himself hurt, if he said anything like that to Cecil.

“That’s the only reason you can think of for Cecil and I - for us being together?” There might have been an edge to his tone now. Carlos wasn’t sorry about it.

Alex pulled his head out of the fridge, along with the milk and gave him another wary glance.

“I just - that’s what it mostly was before--”

“Before?” Very carefully, Carlos flattened his palms against the table and spread his fingers out wide, in an attempt to calm his temper. If someone had hurt the kid--

“Prof didn’t tell you? They found me in prison.” Alex tried to sound jaunty. Carlos carefully relaxed the muscles along his jaw before he damaged his teeth. He really didn’t want to find out about Night Vale - or the 1960s - dentistry techniques.

“Did somebody hurt--” He tried to keep his voice gentle.

“Me? Naaaah,” Alex drawled, trying for casual and tough, and almost achieving it. “No one touches the kid who can blow everything up without trying. Got into solitary.”

“Ah.” Carlos thought for a bit. “Well, I can see how that would give you ideas that aren’t exactly… accurate.” He smiled. “Nobody makes anyone do anything, in a good relationship.”

“Relationship?” Alex made a face; half envious, half bitter. 

“One thing about spending a year in a place where the laws of physics are more like guidelines, elemental horrors invade on a regular basis or run the PTA, and you can almost die in a bowling alley attacked by an army of tiny people- you get a lot of things into perspective.” Carlos smiled serenely into his coffee.

“What kind of perspective?” Cecil asked from the doorway. Alex jumped, and the bottle of milk slipped from his fingers. Cecil was across the room and holding the bottle - milk unspoilt - in a blurry rush of movement. Alex moved back, warily. Cecil smiled at him.

“Oh, on life, and so on.” Carlos said. “And what I really want out of--”

“What sort of things can you get from a so on?” asked Cecil, curious, placing the milk on the table. Alex mouthed the phrase “So on” to himself, incredulously.

Further ruminations on this were prevented by a strangely rhythmic squeaking noise. Carlos and Alex watched, wide eyed as a somewhat uneasy telepath in a happily humming chair padded into the room.

“Prof.” Alex said. “Is that a new wheelchair? It looks… different.” Carlos blinked. Had Charles' wheelchair had little feet for wheels before?

“Cecil.” Charles looked up at his cousin. “I don’t suppose you know why my wheelchair is now capable of moving by itself? Or _growing feet_ , do you? Or walking itself down the stairs?”

“It did all that already? Neat!” said Cecil, brightly.

Carlos hid his face in his hands.


	5. All ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scientists talk Science and the cousins talk issues.

The bloodstone circle in the Small Green Parlour was nowhere as strong as one built and maintained in Night Vale, of course, which was a pity, but Cecil had been feeding it and chanting since he got here, and already things were looking up. Charles’ wheelchair - now more of a feet chair, really - was the first sign that things could be improved. 

The afternoon sunlight poured over the grounds like warm, soothing honey. Cecil hunched himself further into the large coat he’d borrowed. Being a desert creature, he liked warmth and heat, and the late summer temperatures at Westchester weren’t really enough for him. 

The wheelchair clearly agreed with Cecil, as it tucked Cousin Charles’s blanket more firmly around him and purred. Charles gave it a strained smile. Still, Cecil thought, fresh air would do the man good. He was too pale; and even if it made Cousin Charles’s adorable freckles even more visible, that couldn’t go on. 

So he’d dragged his cousin out for a walk, with the help of the wheelchair. Not that Charles had been unwilling, just… tired.

“Cecil,” Charles said awkwardly. He tilted his head to look up at the much taller man walking alongside him, and his neck hurt.

His wheelchair, always eager to help now, shivered and stretched up, raising Charles till he was, if not at Cecil’s eye-level, at least less than a foot shorter rather than being forced to stare anyone standing in the navel. Charles clutched the armrests, distracted. “Oh.” The wheelchair exuded a smug air of satisfaction.

“Isn’t it _neat_?” Cecil happily exclaimed.

Charles nodded, biting his lip. “Yes.”

“You know, if you’re stricken with ennui, it might just be a sudden depression rolling in unexpectedly,” Cecil offered, apropos of very little. “Want to see if screaming wordlessly while pointing at the sky in terror and rage helps?” 

Charles smiled, shaking his head.

“Hey.” Cecil leaned closer, voice gentling. “We’ve been here almost a week; you’ve seemed a bit less than chipper the whole time. What’s really troubling you?”

“Nothing serious,” Charles lied. Cecil’s eyes narrowed, and then his features settled into an expression of mild sympathy.

“Well, if it’s not serious, better tell me at once!” he said brightly. “I’m all ears - metaphorically of course, not like Jack Wilsen.”

“Jack Wilsen?” Charles asked in spite of himself.

Cecil shrugged. “Oh, he found a strange artefact in his mail one day, and well… now he’s all ears.” He shot Charles a quick look, before continuing

“It’s been really useful for his counselling service; I mean the City Council wanted him to work for the secret police, but he failed all the camouflage--” Charles let the soothing not-quite-nonsense wash over him. He was tired; and full of a distant vague worry he knew he couldn’t share with anyone. It would pass; he’d get his school going and… and… 

He wasn’t sure what came after that. But Charles knew he couldn’t continue feeling like this, living like this, for the rest of his life.

“And he even gave _me_ a few tips. Charles, what’s wrong?” Cecil finished his surely impossible tale of spontaneous mutations and how they could aid someone’s career and returned to his original subject.

“I - my legs don’t work anymore. I can’t really feel anything from the waist down. And Raven and Erik - they - they just left.” Charles found himself quietly saying. He blinked. He hadn’t meant to say any of that. Cecil stopped walking, stepping round to face Charles directly. He perched himself on a bench. The wheelchair sagged down, keeping Charles level with his guest.

“Left?” Cecil’s voice echoed - odd, as they were located on open ground, halfway down the paved path toward the lake.

“The beach.” Charles clarified, swallowing back anger and sadness. “I - the bullet was in me, in my spine and they knew that and they just - I wasn’t what they wanted, I couldn’t be what they wanted so they just - they just--”

“They just _left you?_ ” Cecil’s hair flushed with the intensity of his feelings, turning a faint lavender even as his eyes paled.

“I - there’d been a struggle, and - I begged him not to fire the missiles, but - I used the wrong words and--” Charles’ eyes stung. 

Wordlessly, his wheelchair uncoiled an arm and dug his handkerchief out of his pocket, pushing it into his hand. Cecil leant forward, and put his hands on Charles’ wrist.

“Cousin.” He said, very solemnly. “Can you tell me all of it?”

Charles’ tongue nervously swiped across his lower lip. He nodded. 

 

“Carlos.” Hank spoke softly, trying to seem as unthreatening as possible.

“Hank!” Carlos cheerfully replied without a trace of anxiety at being suddenly loomed over by a large, furry man with claws and teeth. Hank blinked.

“Would you like to have a look around the lab?” he asked. “I know it must all seem dreadfully out of date, but--”]

Carlos grinned. “I’d be honoured.” He said. “Sometimes, back home, we’re scraping around with the _oddest_ of equipment. It’ll be nice to be surrounded by real science paraphernalia again.”

Hank turned and Carlos stood up to follow him.

“Also.” He hesitated, slightly diffidently. “I was hoping I could ask a few questions. “How recent--”

“How recently did I turn into a huge blue monster?” Hank spoke without bitterness.

Carlos’ steps briefly paused. “You mean you haven’t always been blue? No, I was wondering about Doctor Xavier’s injury.”

"Oh.” Hank held the lab door open. Carlos ducked past him and headed hopefully for the lab bench. “I - sorry, I’m still a little self-conscious about it.”

Carlos looked at a rack of test tubes and nodded to himself. “It takes a lot to surprise me, after Night Vale,” was all he said about Hank’s appearance.

“What supplier do you use for these?” he asked. Hank blinked, and told him. Carlos sighed. 

“The post office - deliveries in general - have been a bit hit and miss since the great screaming last year,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You asked about Charles’ injuries.” Hank struck out for a more straightforward topic. “Why?”

“Well.” Carlos looked a little sheepish. “The first time I was kidnapped; I - they hurt me. Took some samples.” He looked away, staring at the beakers. Hank didn’t ask for details. “Cecil got me a tattoo of restoration. And they - the things they took came back.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I know, it’s really weird and inexplicable.” Carlos sighed. “But I was wondering, if we had a look at it, if the Professor--”

“You can call him Charles, you know,” Hank put in. Carlos ducked his head, dark cheeks deepening in a flush of embarrassed colour.

“Yes. Well. If we could isolate some of the characteristics…” 

Carlos unbuttoned his flannel sleeve and revealed a strange, green-black tattoo curled around his left wrist. As Hank peered at it, it almost seemed to move. He reached for his notebook and pen, dragging up a chair.

“Background first.” he said. “What came back, and in what order?”

“Uh - blood first, apparently,” Carlos murmured. “I didn’t feel that.” He grinned a little. “I _did_ feel the other body fluid samples returning. Didn’t feel my hair grow back, but I wasn’t conscious at that point.” 

“Really?” Hank made notes. “What were the sensations?”

“Extremely, ah, peculiar, and more than slightly uncomfortable. Especially the urine.” Carlos grimaced. “And I say extremely peculiar after having had eighteen months of peculiar sensations, Night Vale being the place that it is.”

Hankl blinked, and decided to re-direct his line of enquiry. 

"Do you mind if I take a skin cell sample or two to magnify?"


	6. Knowing is half the battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scientific Facts are exchanged in Westchester, and Erik and Raven overreact to a lack of tactical facts whilst in their Convienently Unknown Safehouse.

“You’re _kidding_ me,” Carlos said. Alex, stretched out on the spare lab bench, laughed.

“Hey; of all the weird stuff you say’s in Night Vale--” He leant up on one elbow.

“Not to mention the weird stuff here--” Hank put in, squinting down the microscope.

“It takes a planned nuclear war to surprise you?” Alex ignored the interruption.

“Shaw thought mutants would survive,” Hank said. “They were the only people he cared about.”

“I don’t know about mutants, I was thinking of plants and animals. Was his mutation being able to function without a _brain_?” Carlos absently rubbed his tattoo.

“Huh?” Alex sat up. “They - there’d be some stuff left, wouldn’t there? I mean--”

“Carl Sagan wrote the formula, the calculations, a while back, I think,” Carlos said. “All-out nuclear war leads to nuclear winter.”

“Winter’s not so bad. I get you might not be used to it but--” Alex said. Hank bit his lip. Carlos didn’t appear to notice the comment “You just have to--”

“It would likely last two or three years, at least. There’s your food gone.” Carlos said, crisp and calm. “Plus, abrupt temperature changes, with no oil, gas or coal and no way of producing more - there’re your kids gone--” He broke off, shrugging.

“Wow,” Alex looked surprised, and then thoughtful. Hank shivered.

“It’s just science,” Carlos said mildly. “Scientific facts extrapolated to form a theory we can hope will never be tested.”

“Science.” Alex nodded, and threw a ball of paper at Hank. Hank ignored it, moving away to the far end of the lab, depriving Alex of a target.

Alex pouted for a moment and then threw another ball, this time at the visiting scientist. It bounced off the sleeve of his borrowed labcoat. Carlos threw the paper ball back.

“Science works,” he said cheerfully.

“Ooh, I’m worried now,” Alex said. “You gonna extrapolate me?”

Carlos spun round on his chair, grinning. Hank looked up and nodded encouragingly at their guest.

“Yes.” Carlos solemnly brandished a magnifying glass at Alex. “Stay still, I just need to run a few tests. They won’t hurt too much.” He advanced, threateningly. Alex lay down on the bench, grinning.

“You’ll never get anything from me!” he taunted.

 

“What do you mean, you can’t scan the building? Get Azazel to take you back and do it again!” Erik snapped. He swung round, his cape swirling angrily as he moved. Emma gave him a distinctly unhappy look. The helmet clasping his head reflected dull gleams of light as he moved.

“I _did_ scan the Westchester house. As I do every month. Your ex-friends--” Erik flinched.

Emma gave him the smallest of icy smiles before continuing, “are possibly fine; I can’t tell any more than the fact that they are still there, plus two guests, because there is _something else there_ that I can’t scan. It’s not a mind, it’s more - an atmosphere, if anything.”

Erik insinuated a finger between his helmet and the nape of his neck. It always itched. “Why not?”

“Because… because it is very, very strange. I don’t - I don’t like it,” Emma faltered.

“Are they in danger?” Erik demanded.

Emma gave him another small icy smile. “They don’t feel frightened.” Erik snorted.

“And there’re only two newcomers there that I can identify; Charles’ cousin Cecil, and a human. He’s been there a week, and everyone’s still fine.” She left out the fact that she could only identify Cecil from other people’s thoughts, not his own. Their mighty leader seemed a little tense right now.

“WHAT?” Erik did not - quite - bellow.

Erik had thought Charles had at least learned his lesson about consorting with or trusting humans when he sent Moira away. Moira, who was CIA. Moira, who had fired the bullet at Erik that had taken Charles’ ability to walk away from him, when Erik defended himself. Moira, who Charles had kissed when she left, according to Emma.

“He thinks of himself as Carlos, a scientist. His mind is full of things he wants to discover about this place he’s found himself in.” Emma said calmly. “I’m sure--” 

Erik was no longer in the room. Yelling for Raven, he disappeared down the corridor of their current safe house.

Safely alone, Emma rolled her eyes. “None so blind as those who will not see,” she murmured to herself, and drifted off toward the bar in the corner of the room. After the taste of that _peculiar_ atmosphere at Westchester, she definitely deserved a restorative cocktail.

 

“Erik--”

Erik looked at Raven, and tilted his helmet.

“Magneto,” she said with a sigh. “Why are we rushing to the mansion right now?”

She had wanted to go, when news of Charles’ injury and its permanent consequences had been made clear to them; back then, Erik had advised caution. She had listened to him then, but the chill in Charles’ letters, when he did start writing to them sometimes made Raven think Erik had not known better that she what to do.

“There’s a scientist there. And - Emma said - there’s a strange atmosphere. Charles - they all might be in trouble.” Erik fidgeted with his tunic collar. Like his helmet, it sometimes itched. But sacrifices had to be made. Given all that his drive to protect mutants had cost him until now, Erik hardly noticed this minor one.

“Trouble how?” Raven brought Erik back to the here and now with a shake of his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Erik said. “That’s why Azazel is dropping us both off; you’re going in by the front door, and I’ll infiltrate through the kitchen door - the helmet will keep me hidden; and you can gather information and play distraction at the same time.”]

Raven’s lips thinned. “Just us?”

“Emma said she’ll listen in; Janos and Angel will stand by with Azazel in case we need back up.” Erik wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

“Weapons?”

Erik shook his head. “I don’t need them; and you’re supposedly coming in peace.”

“Tigers don’t need guns,” Raven said dryly. Erik winced. Perhaps describing Raven as a tiger hadn’t been one of his best lines.

“More specifically, tigers don’t have anywhere to hide guns.” Raven clarified. “Let’s go.”


	7. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, inhabitants of the Mansion! Erik is here to rescue you!
> 
>  
> 
> Whether you actually need it or not!

Erik ghosted his way into the familiar house. A quick twist of his power and the kitchen door clicked open silently. Erik slid in, listening; not only with his ears but also with his gift. He couldn't feel Charles’ wheelchair anywhere in the house. Erik frowned to himself. Maybe he was outside.

He could feel metal in motion down the hall, in the lab. He moved on. Hank would likely be there; if he could speak to him, quietly, persuade him to raise the alarm… they could find out if Charles, if any of them were in danger from this atmosphere Emma sensed, or their new visitors.

Voices spilled out of the open door; one a stranger’s and the other Alex’s, with a note in it that Erik didn't recognise.

“Stay still, I just need to run a few tests. They won’t hurt too much,” said the stranger. There was menace in his voice, Erik was sure of it. 

“You’ll never get anything from me!” Alex sounded… defiant. And some kind of metal implement was moving toward his voice.

Erik reacted almost without thought. He dived through the lab door, saw a white-coated and dark-skinned stranger moving toward Alex, who was lying spread-eagled on a bench. Erik shouted and yanked the man away from his intended prey by the metal about him.

The metal-and-glass instrument flew out of the stranger’s hand to shatter on the floor.

“What… what?” he babbled, sprawled at Erik’s feet, hands groping blindly. An inhuman roar split the air. Erik looked up, startled, to see Beast racing toward them. Erik flung up a hand and sent the blue mutant reeling backward with a blow from a metal stool. Perhaps Hank was under some form of mental control.

Alex sat up, yelling, and Erik turned to him, ready to help. Glass shattered off his shoulder, drenching his tunic and cape in an icy flood. Erik sniffed; the man had retaliated with a bottle of cleaning fluid. Erik seized the stranger off the floor by his lapels, then flung him violently away. He stumbled over a lab stool and crashed almost headlong onto the floor. Erik stalked after him.

“”Hey. Asshole!” Alex jumped off the bench and placed himself protectively between Erik and the would-be assailant. “You leave him alone, and pick on someone who can fight back!” A familiar red glow began to build up around him.

“Alex - don’t!” Hank warned sharply. “Everything’s flammable in here!”

“He was going to hurt you!” Erik shouted, as Hank began to help the stranger to his feet. Alex scowled at him.

“Wasn't,” the stranger husked. “We were playing a joke on each other.”

“What?”

“I suppose…” The dark-haired man put a hand to his throat, to the side of his face, gingerly patting himself for injuries, wincing. “I shouldn't be surprised you wouldn't understand that.”

“What?” Erik repeated, fists still clenched angrily, his ability wrapped around all the metal objects at hand. The stranger gave him a crooked smile.

“I assume you are Magneto,” he said quietly. “The cape and the helmet are a bit of a giveaway.” Alex snorted. Hank kept a steadying hand on the stranger’s shoulder. It occurred to Erik he might have been a little hasty. He loosened his hands a little, straightened his shoulders from his combative stance.

“And you are?” Erik demanded, hoping to cover his deep confusion.

“I’m Carlos.” He looked around the lab at the overturned stool, the broken magnifying glass on the floor. “Not in any way a mad scientist given to experimenting on people against their will.” Hank smiled, white-toothed. And sharp. He did look fairly threatening now.

“Ah,” Erik said. 

Carlos held out a hand. Erik stared at it. Carlos put his hand back in his lab coat pocket.

“I suppose these two have told you all about me?” Erik asked, neck and spine stiff. One corner of Carlos’ mouth turned up. Alex snorted again.

“Something like that,” Carlos murmured. He stepped back. Alex shifted from his protective posturing.

“Then - I hope you can see why I may have over reacted,” Erik said, feeling suddenly awkward. “I - I wasn't expecting to see someone like you, here.” He gestured at their surroundings. 

“Someone like me.” Carlos’ expression froze. He said, almost tonelessly, “Someone with dark skin, you mean? In a house like this? Wearing this?” He pulled at his lab-coat. Erik blinked, and cursed his unfortunate phrasing.

“What? No! I’m not racist. I meant someone, who was - someone not visibly a mutant.” 

Carlos’ eyes flashed. Erik almost took a step back, he seemed so angry.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He didn't sound particularly apologetic. “Wrong kind of bigotry - You didn't mistrust and misjudge me for my melanocytes, but my lack of an active x-gene. Completely different physical attribute I have no control over, that doesn't affect my ethics in any way. I see.”

In the background, Erik heard Alex say, _sotto voce_ , “What’s a melancyte?”

“Cell that controls skin colour,” Carlos said, without turning his head.

“What’s an x-gene?” Hank asked. Now Carlos looked a little discomforted.

“Oops,” he said, a little guiltily. “Ah, it’s the name that’s going to be given to, um, the array of genes that control most of the more dramatic mutations--” 

Hank nodded. “Interesting,” he said.

“You know about mutants,” Erik said. Carlos nodded warily.

“Some. But--”

“You’re going to help us.” Carlos looked mulish. Erik allowed a large metal clamp to rise up in the air. 

Carlos did not flinch. “You don’t understand. I can’t. I have to--”

“He _was_ helping us!” Alex protested. “’Til you turned up and threw him around. Asshole.”

“I’m fine, Alex,” Carlos said soothingly. “Hardly bruised at all.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Erik declared roughly, looming closer.

“Hurting my Carlos.” A strange buzzing voice spoke from behind Erik. “Would be a very _very_ bad idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carlos's description of skin colour cells comes from Wikipedia, the x-gene from my own confused memories, if anyone wants to correct me on either, I will be grateful.


	8. If you see something, say nothing... and drink to forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil gives Erik a piece of his mind. Erik is oddly enough, not so very happy about this.
> 
> Carlos saves the day!

Sean held a finger up to the wind and made a few calculations. He squinted down from the roof at the tiny figures in the distance and hoped the Prof's new wheelchair wouldn't be startled by flying people. It hadn't liked it when Hank had tried to give it a good cleaning and to tighten its screws. It had yelped and scurried off to Charles, whining.

It was a nice thing. Sean liked it. Every home should have a pet, and although the wheelchair was more like a service animal than a family pet, it had something of the same feeling to it. Hank had already told him off for sneaking scraps of metal and rubber out of the lab to feed it under the table at mealtimes.

The wind settled. Sean drew a deep breath.

Yelling, he flung himself off the roof - and flew.

Cecil looked up.

“That's a noisy way of getting about. Wouldn't a secretive helicopter on silent running be better?”

“All Sean needs is a tall building and a supply of throat sweets; a private plane would be much harder to conceal; also, it would cost more to run.”

“Are you sure? I've seen him eat.”

Charles’ laugh was a little watery. Cecil smiled, pleased he was able to laugh. Even though Charles was not blood family, and Cecil'd only ever called him a cousin to get out of the paperwork required to leave Night Vale, seeing him in pain or upset triggered some of Cecil's deepest protective urges, the ones that hid all the way down under his carefully accumulated personal quirks.

“Charles,” Cecil said. Quietly: “You need a break; I wish I could take you home for a while, but--” Charles bit his lip. Cecil kept talking. “The City Council and the Sheriff’s secret police would be just fascinated; they'd want to offer you a job. I think monitoring everyone's thoughts is a major dream for them.”

“Er.” Charles hesitated, uncertain. “I don't--”

“And then you'd never get any rest.” Cecil cheerfully continued. He sipped at the chamomile tea in his cup, the old set he remembered from the kitchen. Charles had never cared to use the fancy dishes preferred by his family, more comfortable with the sturdier, plainer sets used by the staff. Not that Cecil had seen any staff since he’d arrived.

Charles leaned his head to one side, resting his chin on a lifted hand, tweeded elbow on the wheelchair’s helpfully raised armrest. “Plus I'm quite keen on staying sane,” he said, a little dryly.

“And you manage it so _well,_ ” Cecil assured him. He stared at the tiny tumbling speck that was Sean.

“Thank you.” Charles’ face sobered. “It is rather important that I do. Stay sane, that is.”

“Yes.” Cecil quietly agreed. He hopped off the bench and waved.

Charles stretched out his mind to see who Cecil was greeting, Sean having disappeared over the skyline. Raven’s distinct presence startled him. He hastily pulled his telepathy back. He had promised her he'd leave her privacy.

His wheelchair shifted uneasily, curling the backrest protectively around Charles' shoulders.

“It's alright,” he told it. “It's just Raven, come by for a visit.” The wheel chair swung around and trotted toward Cecil and Raven. Charles had to bite back a grin at the look on his sister's face as she got a good look at his new personal transport.

“Hello, Raven.” Charles greeted her calmly. He made no comment about what she was or wasn't wearing. Cecil appeared not have noticed.

“Charles.” Raven seemed distracted. “Why is-is your wheelchair growling? At me?”

“Aw, your defensive instincts are developing really well.” Cecil cooed at the wheelchair. “Aren't they?”

The mutant siblings shared a glance of mutual befuddlement. Charles shrugged. He didn’t want to let his bitterness at what had happened to him spill into this meeting.

“Cecil dropped by a few days ago with--”

“The most beautiful and perfect scientist!” Cecil straightened up from petting the wheelchair.

“His friend Carlos,” Charles said, as Raven's eyebrows rose.

“Huh.” Raven was used to Cecil; a slightly odd man who seemed to believe Charles was his cousin, when he wasn't. He appeared now and then, and Charles would get out his tiny stone circle and they'd talk for a while. Maybe she should have spent more time reassuring Erik that Cecil was no threat to anyone. But she'd wanted to come home, however briefly.

Cecil seemed... stiffer and more distant with her than he usually was - by now he should have swept her up in a rib-breaking hug or two, but, well. Perhaps he wasn't used to seeing quite so much of her blue. But he'd always seemed harmless before. 

“So--” Raven began; but she was interrupted. Charles frowned and put his fingers to his temple.

“Oh. Oh dear.”

“What?” Cecil asked urgently, even as Raven demanded “What is it?”

Charles opened his eyes.

“Um. Erik - Hank thinks it's Erik - he's in the lab.” He looked at his sister, a world of betrayed hurt in his eyes. “Were you both here to attack us?”

“No!” Raven hotly denied it. “Only - he heard about a human scientist here and the atmosphere and--”

 _“Carlos!”_ Cecil breathed, horrified, and began to run.

“Oh, _shit!_ ” Charles said feelingly, and then he - or his wheelchair, anyway - ran, too.

Raven stared after them for a split second before she followed as fast as she could.

 

“Hurting my Carlos.” A strange buzzing voice spoke from behind Erik. “Would be a very, _very_ bad idea.” Carlos smiled over and high above Erik's shoulder. Erik himself swung round, cape swirling, a sneer preparing itself on his lips for whoever had entered the lab behind him. 

It faded as he saw who - what- had spoken.

“It was a mistake,” Erik said, carefully. The tall - so tall, how had he got into the lab without folding himself in half?- man did not appear to hear him. 

“Cecil.” Carlos spoke quietly. “Cecil, I'm fine.” The tall man, who Erik reckoned probably was Cecil, did not appear to notice. He advanced a step or two, eyes blazing white fire. Erik backed up, brandishing the large metal clamp again. He blinked. Was the other man's hair changing colour? His face seemed to be _writhing_.

“Hank? Is there another way out of here?” Carlos asked in a hushed and rapid voice. Hank shook his head, seemingly as transfixed as Alex at the scene playing out before them. Erik took some more steps backward.

“Hurting Charles.” Cecil’s hair had gone purple. It almost seemed to have a life of its own. His voice, was also strange, to Erik, as if a collection of howling winds had been combined and compressed into speech “Was also a mistake.”

“That was an accident!” Erik roared, off balance between alarm and rage. “I never - he should have stayed down!”

Cecil _hissed._ He leapt forward, snake-quick, and seized Erik by his cloak collar, dragging him forward.

Carlos called out urgently, “Cecil, please.”

Cecil threw Erik against the wall, not letting go. He leant forward, pinning the metallokinetic in place. Erik began struggling, metal tools and parts from all over the lab leaping into the air. Cecil held him as easily as if he were a child. A harsh, tearing noise filled the air - the sleeves of Cecil's prim button-down split into shreds as his arms began to bulge and lengthen and darken.

Abruptly all the metal Erik had been holding crashed to the floor. Cecil crowded in closer, leaving his back to the room, and began murmuring in Erik's ear.

“He said you were angry, justifiably so, and maybe you are, but actually, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr? You're _scared._ Everything you do is out of some desperate attempt to feel _safe._ To keep what is yours from the void. But you will never feel safe. _You_ are the void you so fear. “

Footsteps pounded outside; Raven and Charles burst into the lab. Raven screamed when she saw Erik held by Cecil. Charles caught hold of her arm.

“Let me go!”

“You won’t be able to help.” Charles spoke between his teeth, an agonised look on his face. “Cecil. Cecil, please, stop!” he pleaded. 

Cecil appeared not to hear him. Carlos gave the telepath a worried look. If Cecil continued to let himself go, Erik wouldn't be the only victim. Charles would be hurt, too. The wheelchair whined, shivering uneasily. 

All the colour drained out of Erik's face. Cecil kept talking, but the words were no longer distinct. Given the way the skin on Cecil's face was moving, Carlos thought this was probably just as well. Cecil's voice could be as deadly as the rest of him. 

The sibilant whispers rose and fell, soothing to the ear - hypnotic, drawing everyone present, except Carlos, closer - one slow, helpless step, then another… 

“Nuh-no.” Erik turned his head shakily from side to side, as if the muscles of his neck had gone numb. “No, I - please--” Cecil kept talking. Erik sagged in his grip. After a moment, he began to whimper, wordlessly. His eyes grew glazed with horror. The color drained from his face. His breathing seemed to stutter and slow.

“Cecil.” Carlos moved to stand very close to his love, and took a deep breath. Erik gazed down at him from where he was pinned against the wall, lost and desperate. “I was thinking I might get a haircut.”

Cecil dropped Erik immediately. He swung round, genuinely alarmed.

“Why--” Carlos moved forward, grabbed his boyfriend's face in both hands, and kissed him, hard. Unnoticed, Erik slid down the wall. As he fell, his helmet came off, spinning along the floor. Charles made a convulsive movement. The wheelchair edged him closer to Erik.

Carlos moved back a few paces, and Cecil moved with him, still kissing. Slowly, he raised his arms - just arms again, now - and ran his fingers through Carlos' hair.

“Erik?” Charles called, worried. “Erik, please, can you you talk?” The wheelchair lowered itself, and Charles bent toward him, holding held out a hand. Erik took it.

“I'm…” Erik said. “I'm… Charles, I'm _sorry._ ” He leant forward, hiding his face against Charles' knees, and began to sob. Charles rested his hands on Erik's hair and spoke to him, low and soothing and warm, words indistinguishable.

Carlos made a gesture behind his back. Slowly, Hank and Alex edged over to stand by Raven at the doorway.

“Raven,” Charles said, calm and even-toned. “Please fetch the whiskey.”

“Ah - which--”

“Whatever bottle's fullest. Quickly, please.” Raven turned, Hank by her side.

“Carlos.” Cecil broke off the kiss and looked his scientist in the eye. “Carlos, you must promise me not to get your hair cut just yet. It's so perfect as it is.”

“Alright. I promise.” Carlos eyed Cecil's own hair, which had faded back to white. He tipped his face up and kissed him again. “I love you.”


	9. Hangovers and aftermaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone who needed to get medicinally drunk last night (ie, everyone who is not Cecil, Carlos or Sean) wakes up, and Sean is helpful

Hank woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. After a pain-filled moment, he amended his thoughts. He wished he was dead.

“Pflath,” he said, shuddering in disgust at the taste in his mouth. Someone groaned nearby, maliciously, and the sound drove needles through his sensitive ears and raked claws along his brain.

“I am never drinking again,” Alex's voice said from the other side of him. Hank furrowed his brow. If Alex was there, who was the warm lump groaning and lying next to him?

“Ugh.” Hank's stomach churned.

“Both of you shut up.”

At the sound of _that_ voice, Hank shot upright. He regretted it almost immediately.

Cautiously, he opened one eye. Blue scales met his gaze, along with quite a lot of evil-minded sunlight. Hank wasn't in his own room- he was lying on the riculously large bed in the Yellow Room. He was also lying between a faintly moaning Alex and a sour-faced Raven. He and Alex were fully clothed. Raven wore Charles' cardigan and was wrapped in Erik's cape.

“ _Raven?_ ” Hank croaked feebly, waiting for the ballooning spots to fade from his sight and the ringing to leave his ears. “What are you doing here?” Fuzzy memories began to assemble to themselves, and Hank winced away from the effort of bringing them into clearer focus.

“Ow, my head,” Raven muttered. “How much did we drink last night?”

“Enough that whatever C-Cecil did to Erik didn't hurt us.” Alex sounded hoarse. “We all had to drink to forget; don't you remember?”

“Remember to forget?” Hank coughed.

Someone knocked at the door; they all groaned.

“Hey!” Sean sounded even more obscenely cheerful than usual.

“I hate you,” Alex said, without any heat.

“Sean. Please die. Or bring us all water,” Hank begged pitifully.

“Can do better than that,” Sean said, and now Hank saw he was carrying a tray.

Raven sat up.

“What is that?” She stared at the tray in some distaste.

“Hangover cures!” Sean said, with some pride. “My ma's. And the one Carlos suggested.”

“Give me that!” Alex demanded.

“My ma's?”

“No, Carlos',” Alex said. “I guess if he hangs around … Cecil much he probably has the experience.”

“Sean.” Raven waved one hand to get his attention. “What's in your mother's cure?”

“A raw egg, a cup of milk and--”

“I'll pass. Thanks.”

“My ma has plenty of experience,” Sean mumbled sullenly, but he handed Alex and Raven tall glasses containing a slowly churning greenish liquid and a small red pill

“Of drinking?” Raven cocked her head as she reached for her glass.

“Of sick people,” Sean said, irritated.

“Oh that tastes disgusting,” Alex’s whole face screwed up. “Tastes like... like...”

“Take your pill, and drink some water,” Sean offered. Alex gulped down water and hastily swallowed the pill.

“Ugh,” Hank said, faintly. He put his empty glass back on the tray.

“You want to try my ma's recipe?” Sean asked hopefully.

“Ah - better not mix remedies, Sean. They might react against each other.” Hank carefully replaced the glass on the tray. Sean slumped.

“Anyway,” he said. “I get to cook breakfast, on account of missing all the fun yesterday.”

“Fun?” Raven repeated in disbelief. Sean blinked at her, mildly.

“So - there's always tons of hot water, come down when you're ready. Charles and Erik haven't stirred yet.” Sean swung around and headed towards the door. Once there he turned back to say, quietly, “Your room is just like you left it, Raven. If you want your favourite soap or, or anything,” before ducking away.

“What?” Raven swung her legs off the bed and sat up. “Why did he... why didn't he... I thought he'd throw it all out.” An awkward silence filled the over decorated guestroom. Hank breathed a sigh of relief as his gut seemed to settle. His headache began to fade. 

“Why would he?” he said. “You're - he never hated you.”

Alex snorted, moving off the bed quickly enough to jostle the other two.

“Yeah. Maybe you ought to think about that. You were sure quick enough to throw _him_ out.” He headed out of the room at an angry pace.

“I didn't!” Raven denied, indignant. Hank looked at her, not saying a word. “He _told_ me to go!”

“Yes.” Hank yawned, turning his face away. After a moment, he glanced over at her. “Do you always do what Charles tells you?” He looked at his paws: blue and furry. “Even when he's injured and not thinking straight?”

Raven opened her mouth.

“And did he tell you not to contact him for months, afterwards?” 

“I - he's my brother!” she finally said, folding her arms around her middle.

“Yes. He is.” Hank nodded. “I'm not going to take a shower - it takes forever to dry off after; see you in the kitchen in a few?”

Stunned, Raven nodded. Hank stood and left the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

 

Erik woke in pain, with a head full of sludgy despair and the fervent hope that he would die soon. The warm body next to him went on snoring. Erik blinked, winced, and for a long blank moment could not recall what had happened the night before. The person he was lying next to snorted in their sleep. 

Erik looked over and confirmed what he had already suspected. He was lying next to Charles. At some point someone had taken Erik’s cape, boots and tunic - and Charles’ cardigan, leaving them sprawled in trousers and shirtsleeves on Charles’ bed, up in his bedroom on the second floor.

How had that happened? He frowned. What had possessed him to get so drunk? Erik rarely let his guard down enough to drink more than a glass or two; the hangover he had now told him he’d had far, far more than his usual amount. The long blank moment faded; the memories that replaced it were vague, but bad enough to leave Erik shivering and sick.

“Thinkin’ too loud.” Charles mumbled, and opened one bloodshot blue eye. “Erik?”

“We got drunk last night,” Erik muttered. “After - after--” He broke off. Charles rubbed his arm soothingly.

“Don’t try an’ remember,” he advised, opening both eyes. “Only need to drink more if you do.”

“Charles.” Erik brushed a hand hesitantly over Charles’, flung next to his shoulder. “I - I did mean it, when I said I was sorry.” He looked at the ceiling.

“I know.” Charles spoke very gently. “And I told you; my legs were an accident. I don’t - I don’t blame you for that.” Leaving him on the beach, though… not so much. But he didn’t say that. Erik was still fragile, after Cecil’s confrontation the day before. 

Charles’ own memory of witnessing Erik’s terror and pain as Cecil lost his temper and began to let his Other side out was hard enough to endure. Between it and his current hangover, Charles wasn’t really in the mood for self-recrimination from Erik until he’d at least had a glass of water.

“Not… not that.” Erik said. “I - I left you. I was so full of the importance of mutant unity, but--”

“Erik.” Charles said. “It’s _all right._ ” He looked away, ears and cheeks pinking. “I don’t suppose you know why we’re both in the _same_ bed, do you?”

Erik shook his head. “We were very drunk last night,” he offered, cautiously.

“Carlos, Sean and Cecil weren’t.” Charles said. “Probably one of them helped us to bed.”

“Cecil. Your cousin - he--” Erik faltered.

“Cecil, yes.” Charles shifted, slowly and with much wincing, onto his elbows.

“He’s not _human,_ Erik blurted. “Or - or a mutant.” He glared at Charles, fiercely daring the other man to try and deny it.

“No; well, he always said his mother was human,” Charles agreed. “And he isn’t my cousin by blood, if that’s what’s worrying you--”

“No.” Erik refused to let himself shake. He had endured far worse, under Shaw’s knives. He wasn’t about to let himself be weak now. 

“Oh - Here.” Charles’s eyes softened. He fisted one hand in Erik’s shirt before using it to pull him close into a hug. Erik’s eyes widened, but he let Charles move him as he wished. “It’s alright.”Charles said into the top of Erik’s head. “It will be alright.” His arms were warm around Erik, and under his ear, Charles’s heart beat steady and strong.

Erik decided to let himself be weak. Just for a little while.


End file.
